


candle dancers

by peachbombs



Category: SKAM (Norway)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Secret Relationship, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-06-13 06:48:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15358641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachbombs/pseuds/peachbombs
Summary: Everything is upended when Isak kisses a boy.—aka an AU set in the 80s inspired by the Miseducation of Cameron Post trailer where Isak and Even meet at Shield of Faith, a summer camp that’s disguised as a conversion therapy center





	1. the next world

**Author's Note:**

> i apologize this isn't the last chapter of so far we are! i don't typically like starting new works unless i've finished existing ones. that said, i've been working on this on/off for a while, ever since i saw the trailer for the miseducation of cameron post a few days back. i haven't read the book so this au is inspired by it, but i'm not basing it entirely on that plot 
> 
> i did try to do as much research as i could, though, and given the premise, i didn't know if it made much sense to set this verse in 2018 so this is set sometime in the early 1980s 
> 
> also, i have been working on the last chapter of sfwa along with this but i just wanted to get this out there first!

Everything is upended because of a dare.

A stupid, reckless dare that has Isak’s heart beating faster in his chest than the idea of free-falling from Postgirobygget’s twenty-sixth floor, which is saying a lot considering he sees murky green when he’s anywhere near a remotely high ledge. Only, this fear, this rattle in his heart is different. He’s not seeing murky green; he’s seeing the colorful, speckled swirls of a galaxy.

Isak could attribute the dare to the borderline destructive drinking he and his friends had been partaking in, or maybe the hits they’ve taken out of Jonas’ makeshift bowl, or both. He just doesn’t know how to attribute his willingness to go along with the dare to something, anything that justifies it.

So, maybe everything isn’t upended because of a dare. Maybe everything is upended because of what he feels and who he feels it for. Maybe it’s upended because of who he is.

“Kiss, kiss, kiss.”

The chants are encompassing him and he feels like he’s standing in the center of a fiery ritual circle. Isak should feel trapped, but Jonas is in the center with him, smiling at him in that easy-going way before he gives Isak a shrug as if to say, _Why not?_

Isak thinks he might love Jonas. _Not just love,_ he corrects in his mind belatedly. _In love with._

The probability quadruples when he feels Jonas’ lips on his, soft and warm and inviting. He’s minutely aware of his friends cheering drunkenly, of how innocent the kiss is, and—and then, someone unlocks the door and 100,000 dominoes fall at once.

In hindsight, his own house hadn’t been the best place to have a pregame—a shamelessly hedonistic one, at that. But his mamma was visiting her parents in Bergen for the weekend, and as things usually went, Vilde had persuaded him into hosting the pregame with a few helpful nudges from Jonas, Mahdi, and Magnus.

When he dreams of kissing Jonas, Isak is never the first to pull away. But in reality, he is. His stomach sinks, his buzz fades, and everyone else turns their attention toward the visitor.

“Hi, Isak, your mamma thought I should keep an eye on you while she’s away.” His mom’s older sister, Kjersti, smiles at Isak’s friends, but he recognizes it for the transparent charade it is. “I can see why she felt that way now,” she says coolly, and if Isak had been foolish enough to have any glimmer of a hope that she hadn’t seen what happened, that Magnus or Mahdi were blocking the view, it vanishes.

Isak thinks he hears Vilde gulp from somewhere near him. “We should—my mamma’s probably wondering where I am,” she says, her gaze darting to meet Isak’s.

Others mumble similar excuses and Isak numbly watches his friends disperse, casting worried looks in his direction as they leave. He feels Jonas’ hand on his shoulder, comforting but heavy. Too heavy. “Ring me later,” he mutters to Isak.

All of Isak’s willpower goes into not flinching away from his best friend’s touch. Kjersti is watching the interaction.

Ever since Isak was young, he’d thought she was a hybrid of an eagle and a human. He suspects that’s why she’s never liked him, because he’d draw terrible pictures of her as a were-eagle and unabashedly give it to her. Now, looking at her, he thinks the eagle’s conquered the human. She gives Jonas a sweet smile that goes unreturned, and childish as it is, Isak feels triumphant. For all the people she’s capable of winning over with her pretences, at least she’ll never have Jonas.

“Weren’t you paying attention when your mamma taught you the difference between morality and amorality, Isak?” Kjersti finally asks.

Isak straightens up, pretends to act braver than he feels. Cowering in fear is what she wants, what she thrives for, and Isak will be damned if he gives it to her. The liquid courage helps. “I think you mean immorality,” he says.

His aunt’s eyes narrow. “I suppose she hasn’t taught you how to talk to your elders with respect, either."

Isak shrugs, unaffected. “I respect elders. Just not ones who apparently don’t know the difference between amoral and immoral.”

“You won’t be so smug when I tell Marianne,” she warns with a humorless laugh. “Or is it Terje you’re more scared of? I suppose it doesn’t matter, does it? They share the same values, the same stance on what’s important.”

Isak clenches his jaw, but he attempts a cold smile. “Amorality is the inability to distinguish between what’s right and wrong,” Isak continues without acknowledging her words. “Immorality is knowing the distinction and choosing to do the wrong thing. Your use of amorality instead of immorality didn’t make sense because by saying my mamma taught me about morality, you’re implying I should be able to make the distinction between right and wrong.”

The flare of satisfaction he feels from one-upping his aunt, from acting like a pedantic asshole isn’t really worth it in the end.

**

“We just need your signature, and then everything will be set up for you.”

Isak lifts an eyebrow, crosses his arms across his chest. “And what if I don’t sign?”

“Isak.” His pappa sighs. From the corner of his eyes, he sees his mamma clutch his pappa’s hand tightly.

She looks worried. But she’s not worried about how Isak will fare at Shield of Faith; that’s as clear as the Five Flower Lake. No, she’s worried the conversion therapy won’t work, that despite busting a large portion of their money on some summer camp that’s disguised as an anti-all-and-any-things-supposedly-immoral center, neither his mamma nor pappa will see the results they want.

Espen—Isak’s not entirely sure what his title is—gives Isak’s parents a smile before his gaze flits to Isak. He looks convincingly regretful, but it’s an act. Has to be.

“Well,” Espen starts, clasping his hands together. “You’re sixteen, you’re still a minor, so if we don’t get your signature, we’re authorized to proceed with your parents’.”

Of fucking course.

Ultimately, Isak gives in and signs. By kissing a boy, he’d already rebelled enough for the entirety of his life. As far as his parents were concerned, there was no room for teenage rebellion.

**

Espen hands him a book after his parents leave, along with a set of clothes. Isak raises his eyebrows.

“There are certain rules here,” Espen explains. “It’s just easier to print it all out in a book. We also like homogeneity here, hence the uniforms.”

Isak doesn’t know why, but he wants to laugh when he hears Espen—old-fashioned, tight-ass Espen—say the word ‘homogeneity.’ Granted, it’s the prefix that cracks him up more than anything, but he’s not entirely successful at suppressing the smirk. Luckily, Espen’s oblivious to it.

Espen leads him down a corridor bustling with boys. A cursory glance tells Isak that they aren’t all his age. Some are younger. Some are older. In their early-twenties. He idly wonders if their parents forced them or if attending Shield of Faith was a voluntary decision. If nothing else, he hopes he’ll never find himself wearing the Shield of Faith uniform at twenty-two.

“No roommate?” Isak doesn’t know why, but it’s the first thought that springs to his mind when Espen shows him to his room.

Espen gives him a tight-lipped smile. “Best to avoid temptation while you’re here,” he says. “Won’t be possible if you’re cohabitating with someone who thinks the way you do.”

Isak’s heard it all before—arguments against homosexuality. While he doesn’t actively participate in discussions, he’s read every journal article, every research paper, every theory under the sun.

But Shield of Faith proudly espouses an argument that, though lacks scientific basis, is easy to buy, at least for people like his parents, people who were born and lived a considerable portion of their lives long before same-gender acts were legalized in Norway. He remembers reading Shield of Faith’s pamphlet: _All people are born heterosexual. Some have a homosexual problem. Here, at Shield of Faith, we work to rectify those problems_ — _not through lobotomy or drugs, but through spirituality and confrontational therapy._

“That’s fucked up,” Jonas had said. He’d been reading the pamphlet over Isak’s shoulder, his eyebrows stitched together in worry. "I'm sorry." 

Isak had shrugged. “Not your fault.” It wasn’t.

Not to mention, stupid as it was, biding his summer away at Shield of Faith was worth getting to kiss his best friend, the first person he’d ever loved.

**

Isak notices him because it’s impossible not to.

He’s practically dozing off during reading hour. Yeah, a good portion of Isak's summer is spent doing something called ‘reading hour.’

It’s the one that comes after dinner, and nearly everyone he sees utilizes it as ‘nap hour.’ Everyone except the ones who actually want to get better, who studiously read books by Charles Socarides, Wilbur Smith, or Edmund Bergler, among others. Some are reading the Bible. Isak spies one asshole reading Bible in Latin. Shield of Faith is a pretentious-as-fuck place to be. Isak's reading Bergler’s “Homosexuality: Disease or Way of Life?” when it happens.

The first thing—the oddest first thing, perhaps—that registers in Isak’s mind is that the guy’s not wearing a blazer. Espen had given Isak, and seemingly everyone else, the impression that regardless of the heat, the navy blue blazer needed to be worn at all times, except weekends, mealtimes, and of course, bedtime.

The tall, blonde-haired guy is wearing the uniform—it just doesn’t serve the purpose of a uniform when he stands out from everyone else in Shield of Faith. In addition to the missing blazer, several buttons on his light blue shirt are undone and the maroon tie is just hanging freely around his neck like a mindless accessory.

Honestly, it inspires Isak to loosen the knot on his own tie. For fuck’s sake, it’s 19:50. Choking around a tie at this hour should be classified as cruel and unusual punishment.

Aside from his blatant disregard for uniform-related rules, the thing that commands Isak’s attention—commands everyone’s attention, really—is that the boy jumps on top of one of the library tables.

“‘The aim of life,” he begins, his arms open wide, like he’s performing for everyone in the library, “is to live, and to live means to be aware, joyously, drunkenly, serenely, divinely aware.’” You know what that means?” He squats down, appears to be talking to one of the boys, who just gets up and leaves the library, presumably to call someone who’s in charge.

It’s kind of entertaining, the spectacle he’s making—the unabashed impulsivity and imprudence of it all. The guy gives a regrettable shrug when the boy leaves, but continues like nothing interrupted him. “It means this: Fucking love him. ‘Love him, love him, and let him love you. Do you think anything else under heaven really matters?’ Do you? Do _you_?” Isak watches him intently, but shrinks behind his book when the guy’s gaze lands on him. He smiles the brightest, million-watt smile Isak’s ever seen his life and jumps over a table, then another, to land on Isak’s. “Do you?”

Isak glances around, self-conscious, but thankfully, the guy isn’t expecting an answer. He squats down again, so that he’s at eye-level with Isak, and Isak finds he can’t tear his eyes away. Not when he feels like he’s looking right into Sohlberg’s _Vinternatt i Rondane._

Then, the guy talks like he’s only talking to Isak. Like he’s not deliberately causing a scene, for whatever forsaken reason. “‘And how long, at the best, can it last, since you are both men and still have everywhere to go?’” he asks quietly. “‘Only five minutes, I assure you, only five minutes, and most of that, helas! In the dark. And if you think of them as dirty, then they will be dirty—they will be dirty because you will be giving nothing, you will be despising your flesh and his. But you can make your time together anything but dirty, you can give each other—’”

Isak never learns the end of the sentence because two guards follow Helma, the librarian, and manhandle the guy, pulling him off the table. He goes without a fight, but there’s a smirk on his face, like he doesn’t care, like he’s used to it.

“Interesting, isn’t he?”

Someone mutters in his ear, and Isak nearly jumps several meters into the air.

The guy laughs. Isak turns around. He’s one of the older ones—a blonde with cropped hair and a sly, but friendly smile. “I’m Eskild. That was Even.” Eskild shakes his head, gets up from his own table to take the seat next to Isak. “Don’t know where he finds those books, honestly.”

“What books?” Isak asks dumbly.

“Uh, the books he was quoting?”

Isak stares at him in response, and Eskild dramatically puts a hand over his heart.

“You have a lot to learn about actual literature.” Then, catching a glimpse of the book Isak’s reading, Eskild snorts. “Clearly.”

Isak rolls his eyes. He was pretty sure he’d seen Eskild reading something equally irredeemable. “What books?” he repeats instead.

Eskild shrugs. “Henry Miller. James Baldwin. Oscar Wilde. All banned here. Must’ve memorized those lines before he came here. Or some other way. Strange kid, that Even. Handsome, though.”

Isak can’t put a name on the feeling, but it’s something akin to uneasiness. Jonas was, by far, the most openly liberal person in his life, at least as far as he knew. But hearing a guy call another one handsome? Actually, shamelessly recognizing that someone of the same gender was attractive? That was new. 

**

Despite his age, seniority doesn’t grant Eskild anything.

Isak quickly learns Eskild’s the target of bullies—the one they fling homosexual slurs at, the one they degradingly nickname the ‘bottom bitch,’ the one who, despite it all, doesn’t give a shit. His bullies get bored sooner rather than later when they realize Eskild won't give them the satisfaction of reacting. Isak envies him. And that leads him to the realization that Eskild couldn’t have been a voluntary student at Shield of Faith. But he doesn’t ask because he hopes that means Eskild won’t pry, either.

Eskild does, but when it becomes evident to him that Isak won’t talk, he stops prying, but keeps filling the silence. It's easy and Isak likes it. 

**

Isak runs into him on the way to his room at 21:57.

Even, Isak remembers Eskild mentioning.

Then again, he hadn’t actually forgotten.

Even stops short, meets Isak’s gaze, then grins. “Halla.”

Isak notices his shirt’s more rumpled than it had been in the library, but his tie is knotted around his neck, albeit unneatly, like he had done it in a rush after someone had forced him to do so.

“Hi,” Isak returns.

He doesn’t do much more than stare at Even and avert his gaze, but he glances back over when he hears Even laugh.

“This is probably the part where you introduce yourself,” Even says easily.

“Hmm?”

“What, reciting Baldwin’s words weren’t enough? Are you more of a Rimbaud kind of guy? Is that what it'll take for me to know your name?”

Rimbaud. The name sparks a memory in Isak’s head. He thinks it might have something to do with French class. He’s definitely never sought it out; he’s not a prose-and-poetry kind of a guy, period. 

“More like a Schrödinger kind of guy,” Isak replies with a small laugh. For some reason, he can't quite meet Even's gaze. Only, that's not entirely true. He flits between meeting it because it's irresistible and not meeting it because it's so unnerving. 

Even reclines against the door to Isak’s room, either completely oblivious or uncaring of their curfew or both, and runs a hand through his hair. “Didn’t know he wrote any gay poetry.”

If Isak had thought Eskild was open—well, he supposed Even and Eskild were pretty much on the same wavelength of openness. “Uhhh, he doesn’t, mostly stuff about thermodynamics. Cosmology, too. And other physics-related things.”

Even makes a thoughtful sound. “Sounds a lot harder to memorize.”

“Probably wouldn’t have the same effect as reciting Baldwin, either.”

“Is that a good thing?”

Isak shrugs. “You tell me.”

Even gives him a faint smile. “Poetry’s worth getting into trouble for.”

Isak laughs, and a pair of eyebrows raise in his direction. Incredulously or judgmentally, Isak can't really tell. 

“What, you don’t think so?” Even asks.

“Schrödinger kind of guy,” Isak reminds.

"So, science is worth getting into trouble for." 

"Never tried passionately reciting a scientific law on library tables, so. I dunno." 

“Because you can only do that with poetry," Even points out. Isak just rolls his eyes in response, and Even laughs. "Maybe I'll change your mind." 

“I don’t _hate_ poetry," Isak defends. 

“Indifference is worse.”

“Is it?”

Even nods resolutely, then leans in a little closer, and drops his voice conspiratorially. “The worst crime.” He straightens up and grins again. How he manages to looks so delightfully, so genuinely happy in this dump of a place is a mystery to Isak. For all its showy, preppy pretension, Shield of Faith is, without a doubt, a homophobic craphole crawling with roaches.

A warning bell rings, signalling bedtime, and Even moves away from his door.

“Goodnight, Isak.” Even’s hands are shoved into his gray pants and he’s walking backwards and he’s probably going to run into some administrator who could rip him a new one, but remains blissfully uncaring.

“I didn’t tell you—” Isak starts to say.

Even cuts him off with a small laugh. He stops walking, then orients himself like he’s actually going to turn around and opt for a walk that’s less likely to cause him any injury. “The name’s on your door.”

Right.

Three days at Shield of Faith and his brain cells were about to combust because of some boy. His mamma was going to be thrilled.

* * *

 


	2. where we went off

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> songs sung during karaoke: 
> 
> [ burning down the house by talking heads ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mdsCpp3s24k)  
> \+ [ waterloo by ABBA ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sj_9CiNkkn4)

It’s Thursday and a summer storm is imminent.

Only, everything is muted, insulated inside the walls of Shield of Faith. The sporadic claps of thunder and the raging winds sound distant, like it’s coming from inside a movie.

“Tell me about your relationship with your father.”

Everything is muted except in Anita’s office. The loud rumble of thunder that follows her words rings in Isak’s ears. Her curtains are open, and Isak’s gaze keeps darting to the window. The view isn’t much—just rain pouring down on a cluster of trees.

“This is only the introductory meeting, Isak,” Anita says, and when Isak’s eyes meet hers, she gives him a tight-lipped smile. “A consultation of sorts. If you don’t participate now, your progress could be delayed. We would have to resort to other measure to expedite things.”

Other measures. Isak’s not sure what it is, but he hopes Espen wasn’t lying when he said Shield of Faith rejected lobotomy as a solution.

“It’s fine,” Isak says flatly. “We have a good relationship.”

Anita waits, expecting more, and Isak stares back in silence. He knows what she’s doing, knows she’s using silence as a tactic to disarm him, so he’ll fumble in the uncomfortable quietness long enough to slip up and talk. But he plays her game.

“You can take your time to think about it and flesh out an answer if you need to,” Anita offers.

Isak shakes his head, smiles without any sincerity. “No need.”

The tight-lipped smile never leaves Anita’s face. She doesn’t even falter. “I see.” She clasps her hands together. “Perhaps we should move on, then.”

Uninterested, Isak looks down at his maroon tie. Spies a few threads unravelling. Notices he got something on it during breakfast. Yogurt, maybe, but he’s not sure. Could’ve been the butter he spread on toast. Maybe it was the runny yolk from his egg.

“Tell me about Jonas Noah Vasquez.”

Isak’s head snaps up. “What about him?” he asks sharply.

“What’s he like?”

“Are you asking if he’s like me?”

“Just asking what he’s like,” she says simply.

Isak doesn’t realize his hands are clenched into fists until he becomes aware of his fingernails digging into his palm.

“How long have you been friends?”

Isak doesn’t miss the way she emphasizes “friends.”

“How do you know about him?”

Anita’s silent for a moment. Then, she sets her pen down and leans forward. “I’ll answer your question if you answer mine.”

Isak barely manages not to roll his eyes. “We’ve been friends since I was eight. How do you know about him?”

“That’s not the question I wanted you to answer.”

“That’s the question you asked last. I answered it.”

Anita’s eyes narrow, but she’s still smiling. The longer Isak looks at it, the more it looks like a facsimile of a smile. “You’re smart. Says here your IQ is a 157. Do you know what that means?”

Unmoved, Isak shrugs. “That I’m smart?”

“That you’re classified as a genius,” Anita corrects. “That you have a bright future ahead of you. You could become a professor or a scientist or a Nobel Prize winner or anything, anything you set your mind to.”

“OK?”

“We want to mould you into the best person you can be at Shield of Faith. But we can only really be successful if you cooperate, if you demonstrate a willingness to learn and become better.” Anita picks up her pen. “So, let’s try again. Tell me about Jonas Noah Vasquez.”

Isak glares. “He’s my best friend.”

“And how do you feel about him?”

It’s the question of the century. A brick lodges itself in Isak’s throat. There aren’t any words to describe how he feels about Jonas. Or, more accurately, there are words, but none are adequate enough to capture what he feels, what he thinks about Jonas. Words would trivialize Jonas.

“How do you feel about your best friend?” Isak finally counters. “That’s how I feel about mine.”

“I see. We can give this another go at 11:00 tomorrow, but if I don’t learn anything significant, I’m afraid we’ll have to look into other ways to help you.”

Isak doesn’t give a shit.

**

They’re allowed one phone call for thirty minutes per week. Because Shield of Faith has to accommodate nearly hundreds of boys and girls from their sister branch, everyone’s allotted a different day. Isak lines up with twenty others for the Thursday slot.

There are four phone stations, but there’s not even an iota of privacy. Everyone’s talking over each other, cramming in as many words and conversations as they can in thirty minutes. Isak supposes most of them are talking to their friends. Conversations with parents or with people who are directly responsible for their admission to Shield of Faith are discernible. It’s shorter, curter, often featuring empty “I’m getting better” assurances.

For his part, Isak’s sure as hell not wasting any of his thirty minutes calling home. It’s been less than a week, but he already feels like he’s been living an aimless, nomadic life without Jonas.

He stands in line behind a girl with a blonde bob. Isak counts at least seven people ahead of them. It’s a rigged game, really—the ones who get out of group therapy or consultations or other appointments enjoy the perks of the first come, first served phone system. Not even five minutes into waiting, Isak undoes the topmost button on his shirt and rolls his sleeves up to his forearms, getting impatient. He cranes his neck a little as a few people leave the phone stations (or are forced away by the guards), and those next in line take their spots.

The girl in front of him turns and raises her eyebrows at him. Isak stares back dumbly, idly wonders how she got to keep her red lipstick when he wasn’t even allowed to hold on to the notebook he'd brought.

Maybe the rules for girls were just different. Maybe they were encouraged to wear makeup to explore their feminine identities the way the boys had to, but by watching sports and restricting their reading to mostly nonfiction works that condemned homosexuality. The handful of fiction books allowed served the purpose of reinforcing masculinity by sexualizing women to an obscene degree. Isak knew because Jonas knew, because he had heard Jonas argue the demerits of Hemingway and Bukowski and Kerouac.

“New?” the girl asks him.

“Huh?”

“Are you new?”

Isak nods. He doesn’t know what he expected, but for how intimidating she looks with her sharp bob and the meticulously applied pop of red on her lips, her voice is high and sweet. 

“Do you want to get in front of me?”

Isak’s eyebrows knit together, confused. “Aren’t you waiting in line?”

She shrugs. “I don’t have anyone to call.”

“Uh, but you’re waiting in line?”

She laughs. “I suppose I should say there’s no one I _want_ to call.”

“Do you have to? I thought this would be optional.”

“It is and I don’t, but I should.” She shuffles and stands behind him, vacating her spot.

“Thanks,” he says when he hears her asking the next person in line if they want to cut, too.

She nods, gives him a smile. “Welcome.”

At least an hour passes before it’s Isak’s turn. By the time he sidles up to the phone, his legs feel stiff from standing for so long. He dials the number, twirls the cord around his finger, and waits.

“Hello?”

Isak’s heart stops.

“Hi.”

“Isak!” Jonas sounds happy, so unreservedly happy that Isak feels warmth flood all the way down to his toes. “How is it? Are they—”

Isak scoffs, anticipates the end of Jonas’ question even before he can finish asking it. “Don’t ask me if they’re torturing me.”

“Good, because that’s illegal. Unethical, too.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t think torture’s a smart premise for a business, not if everyone just started dropping dead. Where would the money come from?”

Jonas laughs, but the sound is faraway and tinny in Isak’s ear. Still, it’s enough, enough to lighten the weight on Isak’s chest, enough to alleviate the ache in his muscles from standing in line for hours, enough to make him smile to himself. “That’s dark, Is,” Jonas remarks. “But how is it?”

“Like paying money for an ice-cream cone and dropping it on the ground two seconds later,” Isak mutters.

“Well, I’ll bring you some stuff that’ll definitely lift your spirits when I come visit. Better than ice cream, trust me.”

“You’re not talking about—” He stops short, backtracks. “Wait, visit?”

“You don’t think we’re not going to visit you? Mahdi already called the place. We’re coming next Sunday.”

Isak clutches the phone tighter, feels the smile on his face widen. Yeah, he definitely deserves to rot in Shield of Faith.

**

Eskild yawns loudly. Nearly all the boys are crammed into a common room for sports hour. Isak likes sports, likes watching football, gets excited about it, but polo must be the dullest sport he's ever seen.

“I think I’ve been cured. If only I had known earlier that all it took to keep my homosexual thoughts at bay were two unending hours of polo,” Eskild announces sarcastically, and a few people throw glares in his direction.

It makes Isak feel on edge. For how much he likes Eskild, Isak sometimes thinks he must have a death wish of sorts. But nobody pounces, nobody tries to take a swing at Eskild, and the tension leaves Isak’s shoulder. One person laughs. Not _at_ Eskild. No, it’s a kind, genuinely amused laugh.

Isak’s gaze follows the sound, because anything, actually anything, is better than watching polo, and lands on Even. He’s grinning at something behind Isak—Eskild, Isak supposes—before his eyes meet Isak’s.

Caught, Isak glances away quickly, turns his attention back to the TV, and pretends to be fascinated by the sport that’ll probably be responsible for his impending coma.

**

“Since we don’t have sufficient intel to put you in group therapy just yet, we’re going to try something new.”

Isak sits up straighter in his chair. “Where’s Anita?”

The man has sharp features. He’s tall and lean with round glasses and a clipboard. He passes it to one of the orderlies and takes a seat beside Isak. “I’m Dr. Ulrik,” the man says. “This isn’t her area of specialty, so she won’t be here today.”

“What are you going to do?” Isak asks warily.

“Nothing that’ll hurt.” Dr. Ulrik’s words are brusque, but his voice is soothing. Pleasing to the ears. A red herring, Isak thinks, when he gestures to one of the orderlies, who comes over to Isak and wraps a blood pressure cuff around his arm. Two rubber tubes are placed around his chest and abdomen, followed by two metal plates, which are attached to his fingers.

“You’re taking a polygraph test,” Isak realizes.

Dr. Ulrik gives him a shadow of a smile. “Correct. Let’s get started. Name?”

Isak wants to point out that asking for his name isn’t exactly the most effective way to test whether the polygraph works, but he bites his tongue. Something about Dr. Ulrik, nice as he has been to Isak so far, is vaguely threatening. “Isak Valtersen,” he replies.

“Age?”

“Sixteen.”

“And how old were you when you experienced homosexual thoughts or urges?”

Isak’s mouth runs dry. “I don’t know.”

Dr. Ulrik looks at him, his eyes sharp, but the polygraph doesn’t reveal anything amiss. Truth. It’s the truth. He doesn’t know how old he was. He hadn’t so much as wanted to document it in his brain when it happened.

“Do you have homosexual thoughts or urges?”

Isak’s heart is beating too fast for him to attempt lying. “Yes.” His face feels hot. The tubes are tight and heavy around his chest.

“Have you ever acted on those thoughts or urges?”

“No.”

“Not even when you were playing around? Perhaps with a friend?”

Dr. Ulrik knows everything. He knows why Isak’s parents brought him to Shield of Faith, knows about the kiss, about Jonas. “Yes.”

“Do you still harbor those thoughts?”

“Yes.”

“With the friend you engaged in those acts with?”

Isak clenches his jaw, doesn’t look Dr. Ulrik in the eye. He’s trapped. “It was just a kiss, not exactly an act," he mutters. 

"With the friend you engaged in those acts with?" Dr. Ulrik repeats. 

"Yes." 

“And does he share the same urges and thoughts?”

“No.”

It’s the first time Isak’s admitted it out loud, the truth, the reality about his situation with Jonas. Jonas doesn’t and will never feel the same way about Isak. Jonas doesn’t even _know_ what Isak feels. As far as Jonas, Magnus, and Mahdi know, Isak’s aunt had freaked out when she saw Jonas and Isak kiss and ratted him out to his parents. As far as they knew, it was simple misfortune that had landed him at Shield of Faith. As far as they knew, Isak had no abnormal thoughts or urges. He was just like them. 

“Great.” Dr. Ulrik jots something down on his clipboard and the orderly’s back to undo the tubes and cuff attached to Isak. “You’ll have another meeting with Anita on Monday, after which we can get started on your recovery. It will be long, but ultimately fruitful. I would know.”

Dr. Ulrik gives Isak a small smile that Isak doesn’t return.

_I would know._

Isak wonders if it means what he thinks it means.

**

“I’m not in the mood to go.”

“It’s cute that you think you have something called a choice in the matter here, baby gay.”

Isak scowls, then glances around just to make sure no one heard. “Don’t call me that.”

“I mean it kindly.”

“It’s what's going to get me beat up.”

Eskild scoffs. “By whom?”

“By whom?” Isak repeats in disbelief. He may have not been at Shield of Faith for longer than a week, but he thinks he’s done his part to acclimate with minimal downfalls. There are people he doesn’t want to befriend, but he doesn’t exactly want to be in their bad graces, either. Eskild, on the other hand, has been at Shield of Faith for months, on and off, and still, Isak thinks he hasn’t learned shit.

Eskild gives him a small smile. “Trust me, Isak, the people you fear most are the ones who are afraid of themselves.”

Isak just stares at him, unimpressed. “I don’t even know what that means."

Eskild makes a thoughtful sound, then shrugs. “You’ll learn one day.”

Reading hour is replaced by something else on Fridays. Isak’s not sure what to call it; Eskild hadn’t told him where they were going, just that attendance was mandatory. Fifteen minutes in, Isak thinks it could be called forced mingling hour.

“The fuck is this?”

Isak glances around. They were in the girls’ branch of Shield of Faith, which was in a whole other wing, one Isak had never seen. They’re in what looks like a vastly empty room with a few multicolored lights, but the bars on the window as well as the guards standing by the entrance are enough to destroy any newcomer’s illusion that they’re someplace fun.

A karaoke machine plays an instrumental in the background, but goes unused. The boys stick with the boys and the girls interact with the girls, which defeats the purpose of forced mingling hour, something Isak quickly realizes when Helma, the boys’ librarian, breaks up a large group of boys, while someone else does the same with the girls.

To Isak’s surprise, Eskild, completely unprompted by Helma or anyone else, flocks to a girl the moment they get there, and unsure of what else to do, Isak follows.

“Noora!”

“Eskild!”

Isak shoves his hands into the pockets of his pants and hovers nearby. It isn’t until the two break apart from the hug that he recognizes Noora as the girl who had given him her spot in line for the telephone.

“Newbie,” she says, snapping her fingers in recognition.

“That’s pronounced Isak,” Eskild says, throwing an arm around Noora’s shoulder. “Sweet boy once you get used to his grumpy face.”

Isak rolls his eyes and Noora grins. “It’s not a bad face. Nice meeting you, Isak.”

“You, too,” Isak returns. “I’m going to get something to drink. Want anything?”

“Apricot juice?” Noora asks.

Isak nods, then looks at Eskild, who sighs mournfully. “A martini.”

Isak snorts. “Yeah, OK, two apricot juices.” While he gets drinks, the instrumental in the background gets louder. Until someone—no, two people start singing. It takes him a moment to recognize the voices.

 _“Close enough but not too far,”_ Noora sings.

“ _Maybe you know where you are.”_ Eskild points to Noora, but even as she holds the mic away from her face, her laugh bounces off the walls, bright and cheerful.

“ _Fightin’ fire with fire,”_ they sing in unison.

Abandoning the drinks, Isak watches them, an unconscious smile spreading across his lips. Despite how much fun they look like they're having, nobody sings along and Isak idly wonders if it’s because they don’t know the song or because it’s new to them—this unashamed energy, this rebellious fire that both Noora and Eskild exude despite the weight of their Shield of Faith uniforms. Isak’s no stranger to it; he has Jonas and Mahdi and Magnus, who are all, in their own right, rebellious balls of fire, but something about being privy to Eskild and Noora’s dynamism is different. It's powerful. Infectious.

When the song ends, they both cheer for themselves. It’s loud enough to drown the silence that greets them from the crowd.

They’re  sweaty and excited when they find Isak and envelop him in a hug. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees something tall and blonde and familiar dart by.

“Ugh,” he groans and pulls away from Eskild and Noora, but he hands them both their drinks. 

“See? Sweet but grumpy,” Eskild says to Noora, who nods sagely.

A new song starts playing and Isak’s instantly awash with a tide of memories, of Christmas Eve with his parents when he was young, his mamma dancing around in a new dress of some sort, decorating the tree.

“Wait, is that—” Eskild starts to say, whipping his head around.

Isak and Noora follow Eskild's gaze to the stage, and there’s Even, standing alone, mic in hand.

 _“My, my, at Waterloo did Napoleon surrender,”_ Even sings.

There’s resounding silence for several moments before Noora and Eskild jump up and down, hooting and cheering and singing along at the top of their lungs. Even stops singing for a moment, laughs delightedly, and motions for them to join him on stage. Isak has no idea how it happens.

Well, that’s not entirely true.

Eskild and Noora both drag him along with them and before he knows it, he’s on stage. That's how it happens. 

 _“Waterloo, I was defeated, you won the war,”_ Eskild, Noora, and Even sing along, completely off-key, while Isak stands on stage and thinks he’s going to tell Jonas that he wants to change his answer to a conversation they had when they were thirteen—if he could have any one superpower, it wouldn’t be telekinesis. It would, without a glimmer of a doubt, be the power to make himself invisible.

Before he can seriously consider hopping off stage, Even’s by his side, thrusting the mic in front of Isak’s face.

Isak’s not entirely sure if he glares or gapes, but he thinks it’s both. Save for the instrumentals and Eskild and Noora’s snapping fingers and stomping feet, there’s silence and Even just raises his eyebrows at Isak. Waits patiently. Isak sighs, and turns his head to look at the lyrics. 

 _“And how could I ever refuse,”_ he sings flatly. _“I feel like I win when I lose.”_

Even’s answering grin is impossibly wide, while Noora and Eskild cheer and clap Isak on the back. Their enthusiasm seems to triple tenfold, practically screaming when they sing the chorus.

To Isak’s surprise, he realizes it’s not just them singing. Others have joined in.

 _“Waterloo, knowing my fate is to be with you,”_ everyone sings as the song starts to fade, signaling the end. 

The crowd cheers and the spirited vigor sticks even when Noora, Eskild, Even, and Isak hop off the stage.

“ABBA!” Eskild says to Even, excited. “No one has ever thought to sing ABBA.”

Even laughs. “Seems to me like no one ever thought to sing before you both got up there.”

There are introductions, and after Even shakes Noora’s hand, Isak becomes aware of Even’s gaze on him. Isak meets his eyes, and there’s an easy, genuine smile on his face when he bumps into Isak’s shoulder.

“You don't like ABBA?”

Eskild and Noora are eyeing them with open interest. Isak just shrugs. “They’re OK.”

“OK?”

Isak’s not sure who sounds more scandalized—Eskild or Even. Judging by the look on Eskild’s face, Isak thinks the trophy goes to him. Even just seems amused.

“Literature, music, you’ve got a lot to learn, Valtersen," he says. 

Isak rolls his eyes. “Yeah, OK.”

For some reason he can’t really explain, he feels self-conscious under Eskild and Noora’s attention. Even smiles, his eyes twinkling, then addresses all three of them. “Up for an adventure?”

**

“Won’t we get caught?” Isak hisses to Eskild.

The sun is about to set and they’re going deeper into the woods than Isak has been, perhaps in his entire life.

“Nah.”

“How do you know that?”

“I don’t, baby gay.”

“I told you not to—”

But Eskild just talks over him. “But life’s for living and we’re going to live.”

Eskild’s pace quickens to catch up with Even and Isak falls into step with Noora. He stares after Even and Eskild’s back. “The fuck did that even mean?” he grumbles, both to himself and Noora.

“It means,” Noora starts, and when she looks at him, Isak’s hopes that Noora might be on his side is quickly obliterated, “that we’re going to live. Come on.”

Isak rolls his eyes to himself, but matches their pace until Even stops in front of a large tree.

“ _This_ is the adventure?” Isak asks, lifting an eyebrow at Even. “Sitting under a tree?”

Even shakes his head and tuts. “Ye of little faith. Just for that, I’ll let you go first.” He fishes something out of the pockets of his pants, then extends it toward Isak, who gapes.

“Where the fuck did you get a joint?”

"This isn’t actually a joint," Even explains. "Not fully, anyway. Part cigarette, three-quarters weed. Easier to disguise.

“You can keep lighters?” Noora asks, confused. “They took away my hair clips because they thought I’d find a way to hurt myself with that.”

“Ah, but a pack of cigarettes and a lighter? It’s masculine,” Even says with a wink.

Noora shakes her head. “Of course.”

Even smiles, then raises his eyebrows at Isak. “Go on.”

Isak’s fingers brush against Even’s when he accepts the joint and Even takes a few steps toward him to light the joint for him. Isak has to make a conscious effort not to focus on the warmth of his body, but a second later, the joint’s lit and Even steps back.

With three pairs of eyes watching him, Isak takes an unceremoniously large puff and coughs seconds after he inhales.

**

Minutes later, all four of them collapse under the tree. Noora’s head is on Eskild’s lap, while Eskild idly braids strands of her hair, and Even’s knees knock against Isak’s as he talks animatedly.

Isak’s head is so heavy he’s not even sure what they’re talking about. But the world is light and his life feels like cotton candy.

They’re all laughing. At what, Isak doesn’t know. Only seconds after he thinks he’s heard the funniest thing in the world, Isak finds he can’t remember what the funniest thing actually is.

Someone nudges his shoulder.

“You OK?” Even’s voice is soft in his ears. Lovely.

“Hmm? Mm-hmm,” Isak answers intelligently.

Even laughs. “Sleepy?”

Isak nods. Then, after a moment’s consideration, amends his answer. “Hungry, too.”

“Do you want to get food?”

“Canteen’s closed.”

“Not exactly.”

Isak gives him a quizzical look, but Even claps his thigh. “We’ll go in a bit.”

“In a bit?”

“Don’t you want to watch the sunset?”

“I do,” Noora murmurs, and when Isak glances over at her, she’s practically dozing off. “Because life’s for—” She frowns, then waves her hand. “Whatever, I can’t remember.”

“Living,” Eskild supplies.

Even exchanges a look with Isak, and Isak has to suppress the laugh that bubbles up to his throat. He brings his knees up to his chest as the sky becomes a vivid burnt orange. Noora sits up, brings her own legs up to her chest, and the four of them sit in tired, companionable silence.

The whole time, Isak thinks. Wonders. For how well they're getting along, he still doesn’t know much about Eskild and why he’s at Shield of Faith. He can’t begin to guess why Noora and Even are here, either. All three of them seem like lost puzzle pieces who’ve been extracted from the right puzzle set and forced into the wrong one.

“Life’s for living,” Even repeats softly.

The sun dips down the horizon.

“A good motto for weed,” Isak says.

“And sunsets,” Eskild adds.

“And sleep,” Noora says around a yawn.

Even grins. “And singing ABBA.”

“And friends,” Eskild says quietly.

Isak, Noora, and Even glance over at him. Isak doesn’t think he’s seen Eskild look so solemn, so sincere.

“And friends,” Noora echoes.

“And friends,” Even agrees.

When Isak doesn’t say anything, three sets of raised eyebrows target him. Isak rolls his eyes. “What, we’re all doing that?” Noora nods emphatically, and Isak sighs. “Fine, and friends or whatever,” he mumbles.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've been reading a couple of articles/interviews about conversion therapy so everything i'm using for this story is pretty much an amalgamation of the things i've read 
> 
> i've certainly taken fictional liberty with some scenes here and most likely will for more, but i'm doing best not to turn this into an overly dramatic caricature of sorts so here's hoping i'm able to do that :) 
> 
> anyway, thanks for reading! there aren't too many warnings to heed in this chapter, but if there's anything i've left untagged, please let me know ♡


	3. lost sirens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the song that noora sings is [ i would die 4 u by prince ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nDWHHHD9LLU)

Isak waits for the paranoia to seep into his skin.

Nothing comes, not when he becomes hyper aware of how silent everything is at Shield of Faith at 21:30, not when Eskild and Noora’s humming recedes as Isak and Even walk down the corridor, and not even when Even drags him behind a wall, shielding them both from a guard’s view.

Isak’s heart is pounding as he waits with Even, both holding their breaths as the guard gets closer. The fear elicits a kind of elation, and the combination is so heady that he wants to drown in it. For the first time since he’s been at Shield of Faith, since the weeks leading up to it, even, Isak doesn’t feel nothing.

As soon as the guard passes, Even sighs in relief. And then, then the idiot laughs.

Isak clamps a hand over Even’s mouth just when the guard stops walking and turns in their direction.

Now, Isak feels the paranoia.

Even, on the other hand, must have a ruptured amygdala because Isak can feel his body continue to shake with barely suppressed laughter. His mouth is moving against Isak’s palm, and Isak presses harder.

The guard squints while Isak and Even shrink behind the wall. Isak half-wishes they could camouflage themselves with cement because it seems like the only way they’d stand a chance. A few, tormenting seconds later, the guard starts walking again, but Isak keeps his hand over Even’s mouth until the guard’s footsteps fade into nothing.

“Think I prefer it when people buy me dinner before their hand gets up close and personal with my lips,” Even comments with a cheeky grin when Isak drops his hand.

“Yeah, well, think I prefer it when people shut the hell up and don’t try to get us killed when we’re sneaking around,” Isak mutters.

“What the fuck?” Even laughs. “They wouldn’t kill us. Where do you think we are, an extermination camp?”

Isak shakes his head, but the corners of his lips twitch. “You’re really focusing on the wrong thing.”

“Choosing to focus,” Even corrects.

Isak’s never met anyone like Even, someone who jumps on library tables and recites quotes from banned books and authors, who has the courage to sing ABBA alone to a largely unresponsive crowd, who smuggles weed into cigarettes and carries it around in his pocket like it’s not contraband, and who laughs in the face of any threat.

“I thought we were going to the canteen,” Isak mutters when Even walks right past it.

In the silence, Isak’s footsteps echo. Too loud. Even, on the other hand, walks like a damn gazelle. Isak applies a little more pressure on his toes when he takes his next steps; his obnoxious feet shouldn’t be their downfall after their recent narrow escape.

“It’s closed.” 

“You’re shitting me.”

Isak stops walking abruptly, and as if Even had anticipated it, grabs Isak’s wrist and drags him along.

“Look who’s going to get us killed now,” Even throws over his shoulder.

They walk until the paranoia that’s sitting low and heavy in Isak’s stomach turns into a dull ache. Hunger pangs.  

Shield of Faith had looked sizable from the outside, but Isak had been so preoccupied with following all the rules, retreating into his room at exactly 22:00 that he’d never considered exploring the place. Isak would think they were lost if Even didn’t navigate so confidently. There’s a purpose to his stride; he doesn’t stumble or pause when they round corners. He knows the way.

They turn right, walk a few more feet, and Even stops in front of a door. He lets go of Isak’s wrist. The sudden loss of contact, the cold that replaces the warmth of Even’s hand, is what reminds Isak that Even had been holding it at all.

Even knocks and a bubble bursts in Isak’s head. He becomes attuned to the clamor coming from inside, but Even knocks louder and the door swings open. A woman in her 50s, stern-faced with long, curly hair gathered into a bun, pokes her head out.

Isak wonders if this is their cue to start running. Maybe he’ll have to leave Even behind, let him fend for himself, because he’s already proven he’s not as slick as he acts. But one glance at Even and his kind, open face is all it takes for Isak to acquiesce to himself that he wouldn't leave Even behind.

“Hi, Donna,” Even greets.

The woman—Donna—shakes her head, but she ushers them inside. Isak quickly realizes they’re in the kitchen.

A few people turn in their direction, and Isak anticipates the worst. He’s not sure what ‘the worst’ would constitute; up until this point, he hadn’t actually gotten into any trouble at Shield of Faith, but his paranoid mind, like a gnawing mosquito, supplies an image of solitary confinement, which he swats away. He’s not in prison any more than he’s in an extermination camp.

The people who spare them glances either resume eating or nod their greetings at Even—Even, who looks completely and utterly in his element in the rustic little kitchen, grins back and bites into a plum that’s lying around. He offers the fruit to Isak, who shakes his head. Not for the first time, Isak wonders exactly who Even is. Then, his stomach rumbles. He nudges Even and Even hands him the plum before Isak even asks for it.

“Skipped dinner again?” Donna asks Even.

“Eating’s no fun if I can’t enjoy your company at the same time,” Even says charmingly. 

Donna rolls her eyes, but Isak detects more fondness than disdain. “Either that or there’s a certain something making you peckish at odd hours.”

“My friend here’s the more peckish one today. This is Isak.”

Donna glances over Isak, and Isak attempts a smile. “So, you think he’s the one for that job we discussed?” Donna says, addressing Even again.

“Oh, absolutely.” Even puts a hand on Isak’s shoulder, ignoring the confused look Isak shoots him. “Reliable, trustworthy, demonstrates a willingness to break the law. He’s the best person for the job.”

Donna nods, satisfied, then walks to the refrigerator.

“Uh, what the fuck was that about?” Isak asks, his voice low.

“She’s just going to need you to hide some drugs in return,” Even replies casually.

“Huh? Drugs?”

“Yeah, you know, heroin, some opioids, that kind of stuff. Oh, and don’t get caught because the last guy who got caught—” Even trails off and he winces. “Well, let’s just say he’s not looking that hot these days.”

Isak gapes, wonders what the fuck kind of trouble he got himself into just because he was craving something, anything that wasn’t mushy peas and cold fish. When he looks at Even, though, he feels like someone’s soothingly holding an ice pack to his cheek just seconds after he’s been slapped because the corners of Even’s lips are twitching. “You’re kidding,” Isak realizes, and Even’s answering laugh is loud and gleeful.

“Of course I’m kidding. This isn’t Woodstock.”

Isak huffs out a surprised laugh. “You can’t just joke about stuff like that. What the fuck?”

“Could’ve joked about something a lot worse,” Even points out.

“Better believe it,” Donna cuts in, returning with a plate of cheese toasties. “He’s got a twisted sense of humor.”

“I believe that,” Isak says wryly.

Even shrugs and helps himself to a toastie. “I prefer unconventional.” He takes a bite of the toastie, then presses a kiss to Donna’s cheek. “Thanks, Donna. Great as usual.”

Isak follows suit and takes a bite. It’s easily the best thing he’s had at Shield of Faith. Maybe in his entire life despite the fact that it’s only cheese and bread and maybe some butter. “Thank you,” he says to Donna.

Donna smiles and the corners of her eyes crinkle, fracturing the stern edges Isak had first seen.

**

“How was that?”

They smuggle a few toasties from the kitchen, and it’s not going to hold up as well come lunchtime, but Isak thinks it beats a cold sandwich. He stops when he notices they’ve reached Even’s room.

“The toasties? They were great. You were there.”

Even laughs, and the sound is soft. “I was talking about your night.”

“Oh, uh, it was nice.” Isak nods.

Even unlocks the door, but doesn’t open it. Instead, he just leans against it, like he’s not quite ready to let go of the night. Isak doesn’t blame him if that’s the case; he feels the same way. Going back into his room means lying awake and counting the minutes to the hours it takes to fall asleep. Idle counting is preferable to the buzzing in his brain, the one that reminds him he’s not with his best friends, that he’s not free to drink and smoke and be a reckless teenager until he’s fixed. Until the thoughts he has about Jonas and his broad shoulders and muscular arms disappear.

“Yeah?” Even asks, snapping Isak out of his reverie.  

“Yeah. How was your night?”

“Best night of my life.”

Isak laughs and cocks an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Even confirms with a smile.

Isak shrugs. “OK.”

“What, you don’t believe me?”

Isak lets out a short laugh. “No, I believe you.”

“Then?”

“Nothing, just—”

“What?” Even prods gently.

“We’re, you know, here.” Isak scratches the back of his neck, feels awkward and can’t explain why. Isak’s here, Even’s here, Eskild’s here, Noora’s here. They’re all at Shield of Faith for the same reason, technically, but getting to the actual topic feels like rowing through rough waters.

Even looks thoughtful.  “I guess that’s all the more reason to have the best nights of your life. Goodnight, Isak.”

Isak’s quiet for a few seconds. He knows what Even means, but can’t make sense of the logic. “Night, Even,” he finally says.

**

Sunday comes and Isak wishes it would go.

He wants to see his friends, wants to substitute them for his pappa, who’s sitting in front of him, a drenched umbrella by his side.

“Your mamma wanted to come, too, but she’s just—”

Isak cuts his pappa off. “OK.”

“You have to understand why—”

“I do.”

“Don’t talk over me, Isak.”

Isak slumps back in his chair. Terje starts talking again, but Isak tunes him out. He glances around.

A few other people and their visitors are sharing the common room with him and his pappa. Noora’s one of them. No one’s sitting across from her. Instead, she’s reading Little Women, while everyone else reunites with friends and family. Some are happy, some are sad, a handful are like Isak—disinterested and apathetic.

There’s commotion coming from behind him, and Isak’s attention is diverted. Someone has gotten bad news. Isak vaguely recognizes him as the guy who had an appointment with Anita before Isak did. Klaus, Isak thinks his name might be. When Isak glances away, his eyes meet Noora’s. She smiles and Isak gives a small wave in return.

“Isak,” his pappa says, sighing through his nose.

Isak’s reverts his attention back to his pappa. “Yeah?”

“Were you even—” His pappa stops talking, tracking where Isak’s gaze was a moment ago. “Oh. Who is she?”

Isak shrugs. “Noora.”

“I didn’t know there were girls here.”

“You didn’t know it was co-ed?” Isak huffs out an unamused laugh. He wonders if his parents even tried to do any research before they sent him to Shield of Faith or if they just tossed a coin to choose which advertisement in the newspaper seemed most promising.

“Is she your—”

Isak raises his eyebrows. “Is she my what?”

To his credit, his pappa looks a little sheepish. “Is there anything going on with you?” Sheepish, but hopeful. Unmistakably so.

Isak doesn’t say anything for several seconds. He has half a mind to stay silent until visiting time is over. But he breaks because he needs to know, and the only way to find out is if his mamma isn’t here. “Why am I here?”

Terje looks confused. “What?”

“Why am I here?” Isak repeats.

Terje flounders, but he continues to look puzzled even as he opens his mouth to answer. “Because Kjersti—”

“—saw me kissing Jonas, yeah, but why did you put me in here when you had no other proof other than her word? I told you and mamma it was a stupid dare, I told you we’d had too much to drink, hell, I told you everything that most kids my age wouldn’t even think to tell their parents, but I told you the _truth_.” Isak keeps his voice down, but the energy, the will it takes to bite out the words still leave him breathless. “So, why? Why am I here?”

His pappa sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Isak, look, I appreciate you told us the truth. I do. You know that. But you know how your mamma gets about this stuff—”

“Because she’s not well!” A few heads turn in Isak’s direction, and Isak lowers his voice. “Because she’s fucking crazy—”

“Don’t say that,” his pappa interrupts half-heartedly.

“What am I supposed to say? Huh?” Isak demands. “I’m calling it like it is. She sees and hears things that aren’t there. On some days, she thinks we’re related to King Olav. She thinks she still has a daughter named Lea when it was a fucking miscarriage from years before I was even born. And still, still you—” Isak stops talking. He can’t do this. He really can’t. Not in the vicinity of thirty strangers. “Take care, pappa.”

“Isak—”

Terje stands, as if to stop Isak, but there’s nothing his pappa can do. He leaves the common room, and doesn’t realize there are footsteps behind him until the sound of all the visitors ebb away and all he hears are Oxfords, tap-tapping against the floor.

“Isak?”

He stops walking when he hears Noora’s voice and leans against the wall. “Hi, Noora.”

Noora’s not smiling anymore, but she doesn’t look sorry for him, either. For some reason, it’s comforting.

“You look like you need to be cheered up.”

Isak snorts. “Why, are you hiding beers in your room?”

Noora smiles and it’s so mischievous that Isak regrets his entire life in the span of a millisecond. “Something better.”

**

“Are you sure I’m allowed to be in here?”

Isak’s in Noora’s room. It’s exactly like his, but with the addition of ugly pink walls. The bedspread is different, too, lacy, delicate, and white.

Noora scoffs when she notices Isak eyeing the lace. “Gender nonconforming, isn’t it? But anyway, I’m allowed in the boys’ rooms, so I don’t see why you wouldn’t be allowed in here.”

“You’re allowed in the boys’ rooms?”

Noora raises her eyebrows, but she looks amused. “I just go to see Eskild.”

“Oh.” Isak frowns. “I’m not even allowed to go into Eskild’s room.”

“Makes sense.”

Isak supposes it does. Friday’s mingling hour had told him as much—that boys’ interactions with girls’ were less monitored and widely encouraged.

“Here, sit down.” Noora pats the spot next to her on the floor. Isak sits and watches Noora rummage through her bag for something. She retrieves a few things, and Isak raises his eyebrows.

“Kvikk Lunsj?” Isak asks skeptically. “This is what’s supposed to cheer me up more than beer?”

“Not just Kvikk Lunsj,” Noora mutters. She shoves a cassette into her Walkman and hands Isak an earbud. “Got this when I was in Madrid. Now, I’m not big on sharing this with people, but nothing cheers me up more than chocolate and Prince.”

Noora starts humming along. _“I’m not a woman, I’m not a man, I am something that you’ll never understand.”_

Isak stares at her in disbelief and Noora claps her hands together. “Come on, you know this song.”

“I’m not fucking singing with you,” he says, resolute.

 _“I would die for you, yeah, darling, if you want me to,”_ she half-sings, half-shouts over his words before she starts laughing. She shimmies her shoulders and the movement causes the earbud to fall out, but she laughs and puts it back in, knocking her shoulder against Isak’s.

“Jesus.” Isak just rolls his eyes, and holds out the Kvikk Lunsj to her. “Pretty sure I’m deaf in one ear now.”

“Is that why you’re smiling?”

“No, I’m smiling because I’m thinking about more cheerful things right now. Like root canals,” Isak mutters sarcastically, but he knocks his knee against Noora’s. The song fades and another one he doesn’t recognize begins. “Madrid?”

Noora nods slowly, but she doesn’t say anything for a few seconds. “It’s where I lived for a year.”

“Your parents are there now?”

“No, in Oslo.”

“Oh.” Isak’s confused. His passing theory that Noora’s parents couldn’t visit her because they were in Spain is crushed.

As if sensing his confusion, Noora says, “You’re not the only one who needed cheering up.”

Isak doesn’t want to pry. Avoids it when he can because he knows it’s not a one-way street. If he pries, he’s going to get pried in return, and it irks him.

“You’re not going to ask?” Noora asks after a few moments of silence.

Isak shrugs. “You can tell me if you want to.”

“But you’re not going to ask?”

“Uh, do you want me to?”

“Not really.”

“Then, no." 

Noora gives him a smile and rests her head on Isak’s shoulder, humming to herself as “I Would Die 4 U” replays. “Did it work?” she asks.

“Hmm?”

“Without the beer. Did it work?”

Isak breaks off another Kvikk Lunsj piece, but he smiles to himself. “Whatever.”

**

Someone knocks on his door at 17:45.

“Isak?”

Eskild’s muffled voice comes from the other side of the door. “You weren’t at dinner.”

Isak groans, pulls the pillow over his head. “I’m taking a nap,” he shouts back.

“Don’t you want dinner before the canteen closes?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, Eskild.” Isak sighs, rubs a hand over his face. He’s definitely not napping anymore, but he also wants to put a cap on his social interactions for the day; his pappa’s visit had pricked a thorn into his side.

“Yeah, but Noora said you were in a bad mood after seeing your pappa, so we just—”

“I’m fine, Eskild,” Isak calls out. Fucking Noora.

“You really don’t want any food? You’re not going to get anything until tomorrow morning.”

“I know, Eskild, leave me alone.”

“Grumpy teenagers,” he hears Eskild mutter. Isak rolls his eyes to himself, but after some shuffling, he hears Eskild walk away. A few seconds pass and he hears some crinkling underneath his door before a second pair of footsteps recede.

Frowning, Isak sits up. There’s a piece of paper by his door.

_Come to my room at 12:00 if you’re hungry._

The note’s unsigned, but Isak has a hunch that it’s not from Eskild or Noora.

**

Isak hadn’t planned on going to Even’s room at midnight. But when the rumble in his stomach had become impossible to ignore, he put on his slippers and toed out of his room.

If he’d thought Shield of Faith was quiet thirty minutes before bedtime, it'ss nothing compared to what greets him at 12:00. His quiet knock on Even’s door sounds like a crashing meteorite puncturing the calm.

Before Isak can consider retreating into his room, Even opens the door and pulls him inside.

“The fuck? I’m not allowed in here,” Isak hisses.

Even raises his eyebrows and cocks his head to the side, amused. “But you’re the one who knocked?”

“You left me a note.”

“Did I? Was the note signed?”

Isak rolls his eyes. “I know it was you.” But a sliver of doubt is creeping up to him. Fuck. What if it had been Eskild or Noora and he’d just assumed it was Even because—no, he’s not going to go there right now. “It was, wasn’t it?”

Even laughs, giving himself away, and Isak feels simultaneously relieved and frustrated.

“Fucking hell,” Isak grumbles, shaking his head.

“It’s just so easy,” Even says. “Hungry?”

Isak shrugs, wonders if admitting that he is will turn into another trip to the kitchen, but his stomach betrays him before he can decide on what to say.

Isak knows Even hears it because he grins. “Starving, then. Good thing I paid Donna a visit.”

Even kneels down and retrieves a few things from underneath his bed. One is a plate of cheese toasties, but along with it is—

“How’d you get beer?” Isak asks in awe.

“From the lovely Donna.”

Even smiles and sits on the floor, his back against the bed. Isak sits down next to him, notices that the cheese toasties look different than what he remembers.

“She let me put a few spices,” Even offers as explanation. 

“Uh, a few or all?”

“I’m a culinary artist, Isak.”

“Seems to me like you’re a culinary hurricane.”

Even lifts an eyebrow, then picks up the plate and puts it out of Isak’s reach. “None for you.”

“Cool, you’re doing me a favor,” Isak replies with a smirk.

“Wow.” Even laughs. “Just keep pouring salt in the wound.” He opens the beer and offers one to Isak before knocking the bottles together.

For a second, it’s easy to imagine that Isak meets Even under organic circumstances. That they’re in his room, eating toasties, and drinking beer like regular teenagers. That after, Isak’s going to go home, meet up with Jonas at the skatepark, and go to some party, where he’ll watch Jonas fill the most recent Eva-shaped void in his heart with another girl, while Isak hooks up with girls he’ll always keep at an arm’s distance. Somewhere in the picture, he sees Even. Drinking beer, throwing his head back and laughing freely, and Isak’s attention is diverted. He’s not watching Jonas anymore; he’s watching Even.

“You’re missing out,” Even says around a mouthful of the cheese toastie before holding a piece toward Isak.

Isak rolls his eyes, but accepts the piece. The combination of spices is the equivalent of someone biting his tongue.

“So bad it’s good, isn’t it?”

“Fuck no,” Isak says, vehement, taking a swig of the beer to wash down the taste. “So bad it lingers and gets worse.”

Even laughs and Isak feels something flutter in his chest. “How’d you meet Donna?” Isak asks.

Even shrugs, gives Isak a small smile. “Just went down to the kitchen one night. She was there, had an overreaction like you—thought I’d get killed if the guards found me, so she let me hide in the kitchen. She gets lonely. Lives here the way we do. So, we became friends.”

Isak drains the rest of his beer while he absorbs the information. “That’s nice of you. To keep her company.”

Even huffs out a surprised laugh. “I suppose,” he says like he hadn’t so much as considered it was nice. “But she’s nicer to me.”

Even smiles and it’s easy to forget just how terrible the cheese toasties are. They continue eating it while they talk, and Isak thinks that Even might’ve been right. So bad it’s good. Breaking rules to laugh, to drink, to eat. Bad, but good.

**

The rain shouldn’t be a prophetic indicator of how Isak’s day will go, but he’s starting to think it’s not exactly a coincidence that it always rains when he has an appointment with Anita.

He crosses the courtyard, blazer over his head to shield him from the worst of the downpour, but he’s dripping on the floor when he gets to Anita’s office. Judging by the damp chair he sits on, he wasn’t the only one.

“How was your weekend, Isak?” Anita asks.

Isak lifts an eyebrow. “Oh, you know, went to a few parties, got hammered, the usual,” he mutters sarcastically.

Anita smiles without batting an eyelash, and Isak idly wonders how Even acts around her, how she responds to Even. “Heard your father came to visit.”

“Heard it or you found out because you get a log of everyone’s visitors?” Isak shrugs, gives an insincere smile. “I just think there’s a difference.”

“How was seeing your father?” she asks, ignoring him.

“Are you going to ask me about anything other than my father or Jonas?” Isak counters.

“Well, I think they’re both important people in your life. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“One more than the other.”

Anita leans forward, the interest evident on her face, and Isak wishes he could take back his words. “Who’s more important than the other, Isak?”

“You’re going to act like you don’t know the answer to that?”

Anita shakes her head, jots something down on her notepad. “I don’t presume to know the answers to anything in your life, Isak,” she says. “Which is why I ask questions. But if you’re not responding to this, maybe you’ll respond better to Dr. Ulrik’s method. It’s your choice.”

Save for the pitter-patter of the rain, there’s silence in the room. Isak had seen Dr. Ulrik’s method. Knows now it was a test of sorts to see whether he worked better with Anita or Dr. Ulrik. But the polygraph test had been terrifying. ‘Yes’ or ‘no’ questions provided no leeway for his answers, less so when he was being monitored for every uptick of his heart, every bead of sweat on his skin, every slip and blip. 

“Fine,” Isak finally says, but he glares at her. “What do you want to know?”

“Visiting hours are until 15:00. But you left after twenty minutes even though you had hours to spend with your father. Why?” Anita asks.

“We had a fight.”

“About?”

“Why I’m here.”

“You don’t think you should be here?”

Isak doesn’t say anything. The truth is he doesn’t know. He notices boys, sure, but he hadn’t felt anything significant, anything morally questionable for anyone before Jonas. Even now, he thinks there’s a line that separates him and Eskild—Eskild, who without a doubt, fits the ideal, the mould of what Shield of Faith wants to advertise as the ‘before’ model. Isak’s not even like Even, who, much like Eskild, exudes a confidence, a sense of certainty about his individuality that Isak has spent his life shirking from. “I don’t think I’m what you’re looking for,” he says.

Anita puts her pen down and clasps her hands together. “So, you don’t have homosexual urges or attractions?”

Isak sighs, frustrated. “That’s not the point.”

“All right. What is?”

“That I’m not—I’m not like—” Isak struggles to finish the sentence. 

“People who experience homosexual attractions aren’t cut from the same cloth, Isak,” Anita says, her voice frustratingly patient.

“No?” Isak asks with a short laugh. “So, you’re saying you don’t ask anyone else about their relationship with their father? You don’t try to justify their thoughts and attractions by linking it to an absent or overbearing parent? It’s just me you’re doing that with?”

“We’re trying to understand—”

“No, you’re—you say everyone’s not cut from the same cloth, but your approach to treatment doesn’t take that into account,” Isak argues.

Anita’s smile wavers and Isak knows he’s tested her patience. “I’m sorry you feel that way, but I have a Ph.D., so I’m qualified to make my own calls about treatment methods. Moreover, judging by your responses, it seems like you work better with Dr. Ulrik, so we’ll arrange for the change.”

Nothing but Isak’s stubbornness prompts him to say, “Great.”

**

Isak makes a beeline for his room the moment he leaves Anita’s office. He whiles away his time reading a book he’d borrowed from the library, but gives up when he reads the line, “The fact remains that anyone contemplating a homosexual lifestyle should have no illusions about what he’s getting himself into.”

Around 17:00, he hears Eskild’s voice calling for him, asking him if he’s coming for dinner, but he stays quiet. After the session with Anita, he thinks he needs a reprieve from Eskild, Noora, and Even, even just for a few hours.

They’re wholly unlike him in that they unabashedly own who they are, whatever that may be, and he doesn't know how to fit in with that. 

He naps until 20:30, and he thinks he hears a few more knocks, but he sleeps through it. When he wakes up, he finds another piece of paper under his door. This time, the note has nothing to do with midnight visits. It’s a couple of verses from a poem.

_“Having a Coke with you_

_is even more fun than going to San Sebastian, Irún, Hendaye, Biarritz, Bayonne_

_or being sick to my stomach on the Travessera de Gracia in Barcelona”_

_(Or being sick to my stomach from the cheese toasties in my room at Shield of Faith, but Frank O’Hara says it better)_

_Hope you’re not sick_

_From Even_

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof, this really might be a slow burn, but we're getting there
> 
> thanks for reading, and please let me know if i've overlooked any warning tags! ♡


	4. questioningly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: brief mention of suicide

The snippet of Frank O’Hara’s poem is enough to make Isak lose his damn mind.

It’s a little past midnight, and Isak eyes Even’s room on his way to the bathroom. For a few seconds, his hand hovers uncertainly over Even’s door, but he keeps walking. When he returns, for a second time in the span of ten minutes, he considers knocking on Even’s door.

For what, he’s not sure yet. Maybe he’ll thank Even for the poem. Or he could ask how dinner went. Or something else. He doesn’t know, doesn’t understand this sudden urge to grasp at flimsy straws of excuses to talk to Even. It’s just Even.

As if Even had sensed his presence outside, the door swings open and an ashen-faced Even does a double take.

“Isak?”

Isak’s mouth hangs open, but before he can actively consider his next course of action—debate whether to provide an explanation or an excuse—something shifts in Even’s face, and he dashes past Isak to the bathroom.

The addendum to the poem in Even’s note makes sense now.

Isak supposes he could take advantage of the situation and duck into his room before Even returns. If Even asked any questions over the next few days, Isak could even tell him that he must’ve been dreaming, that no, Isak sleeps through the night like a hibernating bear dead to the world so Even couldn’t have possibly found him lingering outside his door. But the retching sounds, though faint, are cause for concern and his feet carry him to the bathroom.

“Even?”

An answering groan is all he gets. A few minutes of heaving later, Isak hears a flush and Even emerges from the stall, his hair disheveled and face pale.

“You didn’t have to stay,” Even says, voice hoarse, as he washes his hands.

Isak gives a small shrug. “Better to make sure you’re not dead now than wait until tomorrow to find out you choked on your vomit.”

Even snorts in response, but it lacks enthusiasm.

“Was it the toasties?” Isak asks carefully. They’d tasted bad, sure, but not rotten. Either that or Shield of Faith’s food had finally obliterated Isak’s taste buds and he just couldn’t tell the difference.

Even laughs a little and shakes his head. He walks out of the bathroom and into his room, and unsure of what else to do, Isak follows him. Even collapses on his bed and if Isak had been at all smart, he would’ve just retreated into his own room. It wasn’t like Even had invited him inside.

“I should—” Isak signals vaguely toward the door. “Unless you need something.” It’s a polite, but insincere offer; at this point, Isak doubts there’s anything he can do for Even. Brewing up antidotes for food poisoning certainly isn’t in his expertise.

But Even sits up, looking hopeful. “Tea?”

“Tea?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve got some tea.” With what looks like painful effort, Even gets to his feet, rummages through a drawer, and produces two tea bags.

Isak stares at it dumbly for a few seconds.

“Is that chill?” Even asks.

“What? No, yeah, I mean, yeah, it’s chill,” Isak says quickly.

He takes the tea bags and mugs from Even and gives a small nod. He returns to the bathroom, fills one of the cups with lukewarm water, and dunks the tea bag in it. It takes a while, but the water turns a murky brownish-green. Isak wrinkles his nose at the bile-like sight and forgoes dunking the other tea bag into the mug Even had offered him.

“What?” Isak asks, wary, when Even just looks at the tea for a few beats too long instead of drinking it.

“How’d you make this?”

Isak shrugs, but he feels the blood rushing to his face. “Used some tap water.”

The corners of Even’s lips twitch, and Isak doesn’t know if he should feel embarrassed, indignant or mortified.

“Isak, do you know how to make tea?” Even asks slowly. The words should sound patronizing—it really should. But Even’s face is kind and tired and Isak feels less patronized by Even and more like a useless piece of shit of his own accord. 

“Uh, yeah?”

Even lifts an eyebrow and Isak concedes.

“I didn’t know where to find the hot water,” Isak defends.

Even stares at him for a moment, then starts laughing. The sound is dimmer, less boisterous and freeing than it usually is, and Isak chalks it up to the food poisoning.

“So, it wasn’t the cheese toasties?” Isak asks, changing the subject because his entire face has warmed from his own stupidity.

“No, but I’m sure this tea would have the same effect,” Even returns, a grin overtaking his face.

“Oh, fucking hell. Goodnight.”

“Or you could stay.”

Even’s not laughing anymore, but there’s a small smile on his face, and Isak feels like they might be stuck in a freeze frame—everything around them stilling, everything except them, except Isak’s blinks and the subtle rise-and-fall of Even’s chest.

“You’re not tired?” Isak asks, still lingering by Even’s door.

“Think the tea breathed new life into me.”

Isak rolls his eyes, tries not to be charmed by how amused Even looks. “One more shitty tea joke and I’m leaving your ass for dead.”

“I’ve got beer.”

“I heard you puke your guts out. You’re not drinking beer.”

Even shakes his head, but moves to make space on his bed, while Isak deliberates what to do. It’s a small bed, not exactly a deluxe king-sized, and sitting next to Even isn’t an option. Whatever space Even had tried to make for him would only suffice in a universe where Isak is a contortionist. He doesn’t realize Even’s said something until he settles on sitting across from him.

“Huh?” Isak says blankly.

“I said I can handle a little beer.”

Isak huffs out a laugh. “No way. Not holding your hair back if you puke again.”

“Sounds like you were raised by wolves.” Even’s face scrunches up, then he shakes his head. “Homophobic wolves,” he amends with a smile.

Isak just shrugs, idly runs his fingers over Even’s blanket. Even’s words solve a riddle in Isak’s head. Even’s here, at Shield of Faith, because of his family. No one else Isak’s met, apart from Eskild and Noora, has been quite this candid about rejecting the values Shield of Faith espouses.

“What are you thinking about?” Even asks, stretching out over his bed a little so his socked feet touch Isak’s. It’s a small touch, so insignificant that it should go unnoticed, but Isak’s aware of nothing else. Even must not notice they’re touching, or thinks nothing of it, because he doesn’t move, doesn’t put any distance between them.

Isak shakes his head, scratches his nose, buys some time for himself. “You didn’t tell me why you’re sick,” he finally says.

Even tilts his head to the side, looks amused. “That’s what you’re thinking about?”

“Shouldn’t I know if you’re contagious?”

“Should you?”

“You always answer a question with a question?”

“What do you think?”

Isak rolls his eyes and props himself up on his elbow. “I think this is a lame game.”

“A game you just lost at,” Even points out, stretching out even more and letting the length of his leg press against Isak’s. “Almost thought I found a worthy competitor.”

“Piss off, I’m a worthy competitor.”

“Prove it.”

Even’s gaze is as sharp as it is kind, and Isak’s withering under it. But he puffs up his chest, pretends to act cocky and unaffected. “Fine, go again.”

“What were you really thinking about?” Even asks.

“Why do you think I wasn’t honest about what I was thinking about?”

“Do you think you’re a smooth liar?”

“Some days more than others.” Isak relaxes when Even laughs, smiles back. “Why’d you give me the poem?”

“Did you like it?”

Isak nods. “Did you memorize it?”

“It’s longer, but that was all I remembered,” Even admits. “Why’d you stay?”

“Huh?”

Even laughs. “I don’t think that qualifies as a question.”

“That doesn’t, either,” Isak points out.

“Fair.” There’s silence, but Even’s smiling at him, and Isak learns he can’t hold Even’s gaze for longer than two seconds at a time. But when he does look away, he misses it, craves it, has to chase after it again even though his insides bunch up like little touch-me-nots every time he does. “Why did you?”

Isak feels like a fish out of water. “Why did you ask me to?” he finally counters.

Even holds up his hands as if he’s surrendering. “I take it back; you’re not bad at this game.”

“Not bad?” Isak scoffs. “I’m the fucking champion.”

“Yeah? Won awards for it?”

“Yeah, newspaper articles, too.”

“And to think, I didn’t even know you were famous before I asked you to stay.”

“Pure intentions.”

“ _Very_ pure,” Even agrees with a smirk.

Something twists inside Isak’s stomach and he lies down on his back, his feet next to Even’s head. Even stretches out, doing the same. “Can’t say the same about your socks, though,” Isak mutters, wrinkling his nose.

“Hmm?”

“Smells like shit.”

“You’re going to regret that.”

Even’s foot inches closer to his face and, feigning a loud gag, Isak squirms away. Even laughs, his arm wrapping around Isak’s middle to hold him in place, while Isak half-heartedly swats away Even’s foot. Even’s arm must be made of hot coals because his touch leaves an imprint. Even retracts slowly, but his hand lingers by Isak’s side, next to his own. Isak wants to hold it—just to see what it would be like, holding a boy's hand—but he settles for gently, almost experimentally, resting his hand against Even’s. A touch that could easily be construed as accidental, unintentional.

“Didn’t regret it,” Isak says, staring up at the ceiling, his eyelids heavy.

“Next time.” Even’s hand knocks against Isak’s. It feels openly purposeful, nothing like the discreet tactics Isak had resorted to.

“What, you’re gonna wear smellier socks next time?”

“The smelliest. Just for you. What do you think about that?”

Isak snorts. “OK.”

Even’s foot nudges his head gently, and Isak should think it’s gross, but he doesn’t care. He wants it because he’s never indulged in casual touches that don’t make his heart ache the way Jonas’ touches do. “Actually, the right answer is it’s romantic,” Even says.

“Tell me when you start dating someone.”

“Uh, why?”

“So I can send them a bouquet of ‘I’m sorry’ flowers.”

Isak laughs when Even smacks his leg. “I know some people who’d appreciate that,” Even mutters. He sounds rueful.

“People?” The word is so carefully gender neutral that Isak can’t get a read on Even’s life outside of Shield of Faith. But Even doesn’t give him anything. Just hums in agreement.

**

A succession of knocks on the door jolts Isak awake. It takes him a few moments to recognize that he’s not in his own room, that Even’s still fast asleep, that he fell asleep _with_ Even in his fucking room.

“Even Bech Næsheim?”

Any hopes Isak may have had that the knocks were coming from Eskild or Noora is dashed. The voice sounds familiar, but it’s not either of their friends. A glance at the clock confirms it can’t be. It’s 11:30. Isak had an appointment with Dr. Ulrik at 9:00.

“Even.” Isak keeps his voice low, but shakes Even with a little more vigor until he sits up, one hand rubbing his eye. Isak watches Even’s gaze take in the time, his eyes widening.

“Fuck,” Even mutters.

“Open up, please,” the voice from the other end of the door orders.

“Uh, um, give me a minute.” Even gets to his feet, starts gesturing wildly.

“What?” Isak hisses, confused.

“If you don’t open up within the next ten seconds, we’ll have to unl—”

“I’m naked, so unless you'd like to see that, please give me a minute,” Even lies smoothly, but there’s an annoyed edge to his words. “Get under the bed.”

Isak furrows his eyebrows. “Under the—”

“The bed, Isak. Now.”

The faint sound of a lock being inserted into the keyhole prompts Isak to spring into action. He scrambles under the bed, tries to hide from plain view. He can’t see anything but Even’s feet as he walks toward the door and pulls it open.

“You missed your appointment with Helene,” Espen says.

“I was sick. Slept in.”

“You didn’t notify anyone.”

“I didn’t intend to sleep in.”

“You know how we feel about missed appointments.”

“I think Helene will be quite pleased I missed this one considering I was vomiting all night.”

Espen sighs. “All right, we’ll reschedule it. Find me after lunch. Can you attend group in the afternoon?”

Even mutters something that Isak can’t make out.

“What’s wrong with it?” Espen asks.

“Made me sick, obviously.”

“I’ve heard it’s a normal side effect.”

“Is that what it is? So, it’s normal to puke until 2 a.m.?”

“Bring it up with Helene during your next meeting. Maybe she can figure something out.”

Isak crawls out from underneath the bed when the door closes and Even’s footsteps get closer. If Espen had come looking for Even because he’d missed an appointment, someone had come looking for Isak, too. Knocked, received no answer, unlocked the door, and found it empty.

“You can blame it on me.”

“What?”

Isak snaps his head up to look at Even, who just shrugs. “Blame it on me. Say you ran into me in the bathroom when I was sick and stayed to help.”

“I’m not going to—”

“You’re going to get into a lot of trouble otherwise,” Even interrupts, his voice firm. “Trust me.”

“What about you?”

“If they have verification from someone else, that I really was sick, you’d be helping me.”

Isak looks at Even uncertainly. “Sure?”

“Sure. But, uh, you should get changed.” Isak looks down at his pajamas, confused. “Here.” Even rummages through his drawer and hands Isak a wrinkled, haphazardly folded uniform. “I’ve got another pair.”

Isak gets it. He can say he stayed in Even’s room to help, but he can’t give anyone the impression that he spent the night. He pulls his T-shirt over his head and shrugs on the blue uniform shirt. Even’s shirt, his mind supplies, making his stomach flip. The pants are maybe an inch or two longer than his own and a little snug around the waist, but it fits. He glances over at Even, who gives him a once-over that leaves Isak’s skin tingling.

Isak coughs, breaks the trance he’d dipped into with Even. “You’re sure?” he asks again, his voice quiet.

Even crosses over to where Isak’s standing, the corners of his lips tugged up in a smirk. “Scared?”

“Me? Scared? Of course not.”

Even’s closer now, close enough that the few inches Even has on Isak is discernible. “Won awards for that, too?”

Isak huffs out a laugh, glances down at his feet. “No, just—for the, uh, other thing.”

“The other thing?” Even presses.

The conversation they had isn’t old or insignificant enough for him to forget it. But in the moment, Isak struggles to remember. Can barely remember his own last name, let alone actual conversations. Even’s closer than he’d initially been. Close enough that Isak can see the silent question in his eyes, the worry and the want, the hurry and the hope.

A loud knock on the door startles them both apart.

“Remember, meet me after lunch.” Espen’s voice rings through the door.

The twig of a moment snaps.

**

“What’s wrong with your shirt?”

“What?”

Isak carefully avoids looking at Even when he sits down next to Noora. Eskild’s frown deepens as he studies Isak’s shirt.

“Stop staring at my shirt, Eskild, there's nothing wrong with it,” Isak defends.

Eskild continues to squint. “What is that?”

“What’s _what?_ ”

Noora glances over, then touches a spot on the shirt. “That.”

“Yogurt.”

Three heads turn in Even’s direction, who shrugs. “I saw him spill it on himself this morning.”

Isak glances down, and there is some kind of a stain on the shirt. He raises his eyebrows at Even, whose mouth just twitches unhelpfully. Eskild waves his hand, like he’s lost interest in anything related to Isak’s wardrobe, which bodes well enough for him. In reality, he supposes nothing looks amiss. Even’s shirt fits Isak the way his own does. On some kind of an instinct, Isak looks at Even and immediately glances away when Even’s lips tug up.

“How are you feeling, Even?” Noora asks.

“Better now. Almost had some bad tea last night, though.” Even’s eyes meet Isak’s and he smirks, like Isak’s ineptitude at making tea is a cherished secret between them. Isak rolls his eyes.

“Heard Espen was looking for you.” Then, Noora directs her frown at Isak. “You, too.”

Isak shrugs, hopes that suffices. Thankfully, Eskild, unbeknownst to him, comes to Isak’s rescue. “What’s his deal, anyway?”

Noora lets out a disbelieving laugh. “Espen?”

“He’s young… ish. Cute. Good style.”

“Eskild, no. That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“He is, though?” Eskild says, glancing over at Isak and Even for confirmation.

“I agree with Noora,” Isak says the same time Even says, “I can see it.”

Isak lifts an eyebrow in Even’s direction and Even’s eyebrows target him in return.

“I should’ve known Even and I are the only people at this table with any taste,” Eskild sniffs.

Noora rolls her eyes. “Eskild, I’m not even into men.”

Isak doesn’t know why he feels thrown by Noora’s admission. Technically, it’s not even an admission. Neither Eskild nor Even react to her words. But Isak’s surprised, less by her words and more by her open honesty, her easy acceptance of who she likes, especially coming from a place like Shield of Faith.

“But there’s nothing wrong with finding them attractive,” Eskild points out.

“I’m not saying he’s unattractive, just that it’s a ridiculously bad idea. He works here.”

“Maybe it just pays well.”

“Or he’s a bigot,” Even supplies.

Eskild shakes his head. “Am I to take Isak’s silence as my only sign of support?”

“Definitely don’t do that,” Isak mutters.

Eskild ignores him. “Besides, bigots aren’t necessarily bad people. Just misinformed.”

Noora and Even shrug like it’s a fair argument. “Wait, so you think you can, what, change him?” Isak asks, skeptical. 

“Not change him, Isak, change his way of thinking,” Eskild explains patiently.

“Isn’t his way of thinking drilled into his brain seeing as he’s working here?”

“Maybe, maybe not. We don’t know why he thinks the way he does.”

“Uh, because he works here?”

“But he had a life before he started working here. That’s what I’m interested in finding out.”

Isak doesn't say anything. The sandwich tastes like wallpaper paste in his mouth. Noora expounds on why she thinks Eskild's skiing down an Espen-shaped slope of bad ideas, but concedes when it seems like Eskild’s made up his mind. It is a bad idea, Isak has no doubts about it. Espen himself is harmless and largely powerless, but he reports to people who hold a lot more power in their hands. If they knew what Eskild was up to with a Shield of Faith employee—Isak doesn’t even know what would happen, but nothing good, he supposes. 

“I have to meet him after lunch,” Even says.

Eskild’s excitement is unmistakable. “Really? Can I come with?”

“Is that a good idea?” Isak asks carefully.

Eskild sighs longsufferingly. “I’m not going to blow him in front of Even, Isak.”

For some reason, his brain chooses to parse out the words _blow, Even_ and _Isak._ “The fuck? Who said anything about blowjobs?” Isak asks, defensive.

He doesn’t look at Even, doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to, but Eskild just rolls his eyes.

**

Group therapy is actual hell on Earth.

Excluding Isak and the woman who’s in charge, there are eight other boys. Isak recognizes a few, but only remembers Klaus by name. The woman—Helene, Isak remembers—instructs one of the boys seated next to her to start the session. Isak recognizes him as one of Eskild’s tormentors.

“I’m Kristoffer,” he says, making eye contact with nearly every person in the room. It’s almost unnerving. “I’d been doing well for the past few weeks, but—” He stops short when the door swings open.

“Sorry, I had to reschedule an appointment with Espen.”

Helene ushers Even inside—Even, who notices Isak, and plops down in the seat right next to him.

“It’s all right, we’ve only just gotten started,” Helene says, then waves her hand at Kristoffer. “Carry on, Kristoffer.”

Kristoffer glares at Even, like he’s single-handedly responsible for snapping Kristoffer out of whatever groove he’d been about to enter. “As I was saying,” he says pointedly, “I’d been doing well for the past few few weeks, but I relapsed last night.”

Everyone seems to hold their breaths as they wait to hear Kristoffer’s confession.

“I had a homosexual dream,” Kristoffer says. “And this morning, I masturbated to what I remembered.”

“Tell us about this homosexual dream,” Helene says with the seriousness of an oncologist trying to determine her patient’s responsiveness to chemotherapy.

Next to him, Even snorts and Isak feels the pressure building up in his own chest. He presses a hand over his mouth, snickers to himself as quietly as he can—unsuccessfully because Kristoffer glares at Isak this time around.

“It was about someone here,” Kristoffer starts. “Not in this room, but here at Shield of Faith. Someone I know. Someone I’m friends with. In the dream, we were—we were engaging in sexual acts. Sodomy.”

“And you masturbated to that?” Helene asks.

“I did. But I was ashamed. I don’t know if this was a part of the dream or if I had made it up in my own head, but I heard his voice when I came. He called me a fag. I felt like I deserved to hear it.”

Isak’s hand drops to his lap, now cold and clammy.

“Why?”

Everyone’s attention is diverted to Even.

“Even, as we’ve discussed, I ask—”

Even cuts Helene off. “Why do you feel like you deserved to hear it?” He’s leaning forward in his chair, looking at Kristoffer with rapt, concerned attention. “Everyone has sex dreams. Everyone jerks off to it. Why should you feel shitty about it? Just because it was with—”

“Even,” Helene says, her voice sharp and saccharine-sweet at the same time. “Have you taken your medication today?”

Isak glances over at Even, confused, but Even just clenches his jaw and nods. “I did. But this isn't about—”

“Well, we’re going to move on. Thank you, Kristoffer, for your time, Anita will discuss it further with you during your appointment. Marius, you’re up next.”

Even sighs, soft but frustrated, and leans back in his chair. They sit through Marius’ excruciatingly detailed wet dream before it’s Klaus’ turn.

“Uh, I’m Klaus,” he says, staring at his shoes. “I’m new. Just got here two weeks ago. I was in a relationship with a boy. Aamir. My parents found out and told his. That’s why I’m here.”

“Tell us about your relationship with Aamir,” Helene says.

“I don’t have one anymore,” Klaus replies flatly, still addressing his shoes.

“Because you’ve been making progress with your recovery here?”

“Because he’s dead.”

Klaus finally looks up, and Isak understands why he’d been staring at his shoes. His cheeks are wet with tear tracks.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Klaus. How did he die?” Helene’s voice is soft, gentle, but Isak feels annoyed on Klaus’ behalf.

Klaus doesn’t say anything for several minutes. “Suicide,” he finally mutters and his gaze hardens when he looks at Helene. “You want to know what lack of acceptance does to people? It's that.”

Helene shakes her head slowly. “Klaus, I’m sorry for what happened to your friend. You’re new, so you must not have the best understanding of what we do here. We’re very accepting. We know about your homosexual tendencies and we aim to correct it in a judgement-free zone. I wish your friend would’ve had a chance to come here. Maybe we could’ve helped him.”

“Trying to correct someone isn’t acceptance,” Even says, then smiles at Helene when she gives him a cold look. “With all due respect, of course, Helene.”

“Even, I’m going to have to—”

“He’s right, though, isn’t he?” Klaus cuts in. There’s a desperate edge to his voice. “Correcting someone is the opposite of acceptance. It’s—”

“Even, I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” Helene interrupts. “We can talk about what caused these disruptions at your next meeting with Dr. Ulrik.”

Even’s on his feet before Helene even finishes her sentence. “Sure. See you later, Helene.” It’s the most polite form of passive-aggressiveness Isak’s ever seen. Even gives him a hint of a smile when he leaves.

One by one, everyone else speaks, but no one offers any radical interruptions. Everyone silently swallows Helene’s favorite buzz words. Judgement-free zone. Cure. Changing faulty mentality. Acceptance. Corrective therapy. Homosexuality isn't real. 

Finally, it’s Isak’s turn.

“You can talk about anything you’d like to share,” Helene says.

Isak remains silent. Helene would have a field day with everything that’s going on in his mind, Isak thinks. From Jonas to Even to all the magazines hidden in a suitcase under his bed. “I don’t have anything,” he says instead.

“Are you sure? Absolutely anything.”

Isak shrugs. “Sorry. I’ve got nothing.”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took a while (cue all my uninspired tears) and i wanted this chapter to include a lot more things but i'm still trying to find my footing with the pacing so the boy squad's visit will be in the next chapter
> 
> but we'll see how it all goes, this is probably going to be my last fic so i'm pushing through 
> 
> thanks for reading! ♡


End file.
